


little things

by rachhell



Category: South Park
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 16:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13415349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: This is where I'm going to deposit all my tumblr requests and prompts!Pairings, tags to be added with chapters.





	1. you're safe now. i've got you (tweek)

**Author's Note:**

> _pbjellieao3 asked:_  
>  79\. With Tweek and not Craig (literally anyone else or just Tweek)
> 
>  
> 
> 79: you're safe now, i've got you. Sad adult Tweek finds a kitten.

“You’re safe now, I’ve got you. C’mon, little guy.” Tweek stretched out a trembling hand underneath the bench in front of Tweek Bros. The possibility that the kitten might bite him, or scratch him, and then he’d have to have rabies shots, but what if those didn’t work and then he’d DIE, delirious and seizing and frothing at the mouth in some hospital bed while his family and friends (what friends, Tweek? You’re the last one here, you’re alone, everyone’s moved on except YOU, stuck in South Park you loser failure spaz freak) shook their heads at him, how could he be so STUPID, don’t you know you’re not supposed to touch strange animals, Tweek, you idiot, flashed across his mind. When the pitiful, tiny orange kitten instead emitted a high-pitched mew and gingerly lifted its head, giving his finger a curious sniff with its wet, pink nose, and allowed him to reach out and extract it from the wet ground, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

It had rained pretty hard that day, and traffic was low at Tweek Bros. He first noticed the kitten a few hours earlier, pacing around the store and rubbing itself against the glass. He swore he’d ignore it, for the first hour or so. Then, he thought maybe he’d call animal control. And then, with a twitch and a rake of fingers through his hair, he decided that if the cat was still outside by closing time, he’d just take care of it himself.

There were only a few things left to do - secure the drawer, turn off the lights, set the alarm - make SURE the alarm is set, sweet Jesus because somebody might rob the fucking place and what would your dad do then, come back from the grave out of sheer fucking disappointment, how could he ever leave the business to YOU, how could you ever - and lock up. The cat wiggled a little as he used a cleaning rag to dry him off. He folded up a couple extra Tweek Bros aprons, a couple towels, and lay them in a spare flavor syrup box, depositing the kitty in the middle of it all. It looked up at him with wide, kinda crusty green eyes. It seemed comfortable.

Cute. It was cute, really cute, and he couldn’t just  _ leave _ it out there. But he couldn’t take it to the pound. What if they killed it? Or worse, what if some psycho slipped through the cracks and was able to adopt it and used it for, god, experiments or beat it or- “Jesus CHRIST!” The cash drawer shook in his grasp, sending change flying across the floor. Fuck. He started over.

He supposed he could keep it. (Him? Weren’t orange cats usually boys?). It might be nice, to have someone to talk to and spend time with. Someone to break up the loneliness and monotony. Someone who wouldn’t judge him. Someone to take care of.  Yeah. He could.

“I’m gonna call you, ah, I’m gonna call you….” He flipped the lights on and off a second, third, fourth time, before crossing to the counter and tucking the box under his arms. “Sunny? Like the sun? Because, yeah, because you’re orange. Heh.” He set the alarm. He disarmed it. He set it again.

As he locked the door of the coffee shop and headed toward his car, Sunny lifted his head out of the box to smell the outside air. It smelled like fresh grass and pavement and coffee and rain. “You ready to go, little dude?” 

Sunny meowed.


	2. do you want me to leave? (stary)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _lordjenjen asked:  
>  Writing prompt #1 (BECAUSE I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT STAN/GARY!!)_
> 
> _Prompt 1: “do you want me to leave?”  
>  You asked for Stary and got UHHHHH the first draft of a chapter I guess!!!! Random excerpt from my college roommate AU in which the Raisins girls are sorority/party girls, Stan is low key still Goth!Stan, and Gary is a super repressed gay Mormon who is banging/in love with his roommate._

Stan was beginning to regret inviting the girl back to his place. Sure, Gary was out for the night, who knew where.  _And who cares,_  Stan lied to himself. He finished pouring drinks for himself and his lady friend of sorts, orange-pineapple-banana juice with far too much white rum, and settled into his futon where the girl was animatedly talking, not looking at Stan, but scrolling through her Instagram feed.

Sure, she was cute, and seemed nice enough. Sure, kissing her against the cold basement wall of the Phi Beta house hadn’t been awful, and sure, they were both pretty wasted. But, there were chill drunks, like Token. Wild drunks, like Kenny. Emotional drunks, like Stan himself. And then, there were the chatty drunks. Porsche was definitely a chatty drunk - no, she transcended chatty, going straight to rambling, like she was both interviewing herself and answering the questions. From when they’d teetered across campus, it’d been a one woman show, for an audience of one, starring somebody who, if she ever elected to stop talking, would definitely end up a one-night stand, not a person Stan would like to chat with over dinner. God, no.

“…like, a grape, or something? Right?”

“Uh. Yeah! A grape,” Stan said, agreeing to Lord only knew what.

“I know, right? Oh my god you are so cute! So like, the Phi Beta guys throw a good party, right, but I think that PC Delta kind of does too. But not as good as the-“

He scanned the room as she continued to speak, nodding or letting out a halfhearted “Sure,” when he thought it was appropriate to do so, glancing at the movie for which he’d invited her over, purely as a formality - they both knew what ‘wanna watch a movie?’ really meant. He realized, as he focused on Gary’s side of the room, all neat and tidy, and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut, that he’d about drained his own beverage already.

“So like is that your real hair color or do you dye it black? I dye my hair because it’s like blonde? Well it’s not really blonde but it’s, like, light brown or whatever and I don’t really like it.” Porsche prattled on, staring at her square-tipped, shiny manicure that glinted in the purple fairy lights strung along Stan’s lofted bed, before reaching out to brush Stan’s hair off his forehead. He didn’t reciprocate the gesture. “My big says that you’re supposed to test your hair dye on your arm or your face can swell up, isn’t that crazy? And then I have this friend, she’s allergic to shrimp?” She stared at Stan, blinking, as if waiting for him to weigh in on some important issue.

He blinked right back at her. “Oh. Uh. Oh ye-“

She continued. “Yeah, she’s like allergic to shrimp. All shellfish I guess? And her face like gets all big and puffy and she can’t breathe when she eats them and I’m just like oh my god what if that happened to me? But I can eat shrimp.” Taking a long gulp from her red, plastic cup, she twirled a lock of her own hair around her finger, before settling her hand on Stan’s knee. “So do you dye your hair?”

“It’s just black,” Stan answered. “Want another drink?” When she answered in the negative, Stan shrugged. “I’m gonna.”

“Is your roommate around?” She asked. It was evident she was trying to sound coy, seductive, but her voice was more of a drunken slur than anything else.

It took Stan a moment to gather his bearings as he stood to stagger toward the mini fridge. “Naw,” he slurred back, wavering a bit. “He’s gone so like. It’s whatever.” He laughed, a bit too loudly. “He’s gone because he knows I’m out,” he added, “‘Cause, like. He just couldn’t deal with-“

The door opened, its lack of stopper causing it to knock against the wall, like always. Porsche nearly spilled what was left of her drink at the sudden bang, and Gary, sweaty and red-faced, barged into the room with but a short, clipped hello in the general vicinity of Stan and Porsche, heaved his gym bag onto the floor near his desk, and flopped himself down onto his chair, spinning it around and staring at the two of them with crossed arms and steely eyes.

Stan felt foolish, standing in the middle of the room, unsure of whether he should sit back down, or flee, or, what? Apologize? Do something rash like hug him or kiss him right in front of this random hookup-to-be that he barely knew? “You’re here,” he said, instead, feeling no less dumb.

“I was just at the gym,” said Gary, clipped and acidic.

Stan drew in a short breath, his body turned so he was leaning against the fridge. “Gary,” he began, “Look, dude, I-“

“Hiiiieee,” singsonged Porsche, seemingly unaware of Gary’s obvious agitation, “Are you Sam’s roommate? I’m Porsche, like the car.”

He ignored her, and continued to gaze at Stan. It always felt like he was gazing into him, and even through the haze of alcohol, tonight was no exception. Stan gripped the side of the mini fridge, to steady himself, or ground himself, and chugged half his drink in one gulp. “I was at the gym and you thought I was, what, out? At a party or something?” Gary’s eyes narrowed.

With a grimace and a wipe of his lips, Stan replied, “I dunno, I just-“

“Just didn’t really think about it, now did you?”

“It’s not that I didn’t think about it,” Stan started, “It’s just-“

“Okay, do you want me to leave?” Porsche asked with a roll of her eyes. Either the building argument, the tension between the two was more than obvious, or Porsche wasn’t quite as dumb as she seemed.

“What?”

“Yes,” Gary snapped.

“No, you don’t have to leave, it’s-“

“You should probably go,” Gary reiterated, firmly.

“Yeah… I think I’m just gonna… Lexus texted me anyway. You remember Lexus? She’s the one with the red hair but. Anyway. I’m gonna go,” she slurred. “Super nice meeting you, Steve!” With a ruffle of Stan’s hair, her hand trailing down his face, to his shoulder to give it a squeeze, she pecked a kiss on his cheek, swept up her strappy heels from the floor and, barefoot, teetered out of the dorm, leaving Stan and Gary alone, eyes still locked with unspoken anger, and fear, and maybe even a hint of desire - or so Stan hoped. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. Maybe it all was.

“Okay, look-“

“Real nice.” Gary glared at him. “Just… spare me, Stan. Goodnight.”


	3. you can't keep doing this (style)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4\. “You can’t keep doing this.” (prompted by @pbjellieao3)
> 
> HEY THANKS, this happened! Now I’m plotting some kinda murder mystery and have to write Who Killed Shelly Marsh? (Or whatever I’m gonna call it). Just what I needed, another idea!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to write this story.

“Listen, Stan, you can’t keep doing this.” Kyle raked his fingers through his mane of ginger curls, casting his eyes skyward with a raw, shuddering sigh.

“Doing  _ what,”  _ Stan spat. The computer screen was the only source of light in their extra-bedroom-turned-office, and it cast a blue glow upon his face that made his dark circles look like purple bruises under his sunken, exhausted eyes. He took a swig from the near-empty handle of Jack he’d been nursing over the past week, wiping his lips with a shiver as a bit trickled out the corner of his mouth. “I don’t care if we never got along. She’s my  _ sister.  _ Fuck if I’m gonna just sit back and let Park County handle this shit. They’re useless.”

Kyle stepped toward him, tentatively reaching out a hand to his shoulder. Upon contact, Stan stiffened, then relaxed. “I know. I  _ know _ , dude, but you haven’t been sleeping. You look like a fucking mess. Come to bed, okay?”

“Shelly’s last Facebook check-in was at Skeeter’s, April 6th. This guy named James Norman liked it. His profile is public, so I looked-“

“I  _ know,  _ Stan, you looked at his profile and he’s been posting weird shit and, dude. You already _ told  _ me that. Obviously the cops know, obviously they’ve checked out that Norman guy and…” Kyle shut his eyes, sighing as he kneaded into Stan’s knotted shoulder. “If he was really a person of interest, wouldn’t the cops have already made an arrest? Or… I don’t know. At least done  _ something _ ?” He tried to soften his voice, tried to exude concern and love and empathy, but Stan nevertheless clenched his jaw hard enough that Kyle felt the muscles of Stan’s neck tense. 

After another sip, after he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, hard enough to see pinprick black-and-white stars like TV static dancing across his eyes, Stan pushed the keyboard’s tray into the desk hard enough for it to rattle, and spun around in his chair. He reached out and, with a long, sudden sob, threw his arms around Kyle, face mashing against his stomach, shielding his tearful eyes in the somewhat scratchy wool of his sweater. “We don’t know that she’s dead,” he muttered, as if he was trying to convince himself more than anything else. “We don’t  _ know.” _

“We don’t,” Kyle echoed faintly. He sunk to his knees, face-to-face with Stan, and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. “But. You’re not going to get anything done all shitfaced-drunk, right?” Concern faced off against pure desperation when their eyes met.

Stan stared at him. “What would you do if Ike went missing?” He asked, in a near whisper. 

Kyle exhaled. “I… okay. The same thing you’re doing now,” he said with a barely-disguised hint of amusement.

“Then help me, okay?”


	4. it's ok to cry (pc principal and mr. mackey broship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Anonymous asked:  
>  62 with PC Principal_
> 
> _62\. “It’s okay to cry…”_

“It’s okay to cry. The idea that men cannot cry is sexist and rooted in anti-feminist ideals and is totally not PC and, bro.” PC Principal chugged down the rest of his IPA, slammed it on the countertop, and buried his face in his hands, lifting up his sunglasses to rest upon his hair, which seemed unbrushed and unwashed. “Like. Bro. I can’t believe she left me.” The sound he made was between a sob and a laugh, but no tears came. “I know it’s okay to cry. Why can’t I cry?”

“Mmkay.” Mr. Mackey shifted in his seat. “Well, uh.” He cleared his throat, just wanting to watch the basketball game playing on the big screen over the bar, rather than discuss the minutiae of his coworkers’ love life, or provide therapy free of charge. That was why they were there, after all, to watch the game - or so PC Principal had said, when he invited him to drink at Skeeter’s after work. After a couple beers, a commercial for Kay Jewelers had set off PC Principal, who revealed his true intentions behind the outing, which were crying - metaphorically speaking - on Mr. Mackey’s shoulder about the departure of Vice Principal Woman. “There are other fish in the sea, mmkay?”

“Other fish. Yeah. Yeah, dude.” PC Principal nodded, slowly, as if Mr. Mackey had said something incredibly profound and wise. “It’s like you get so used to crushin’ puss with a woman’s enthusiastic consent that you forget that you can have a deeper connection with someone. And now that it’s gone, I don’t know what I’m gonna do, bro.”

“Crushin’ puss,” echoed Mr. Mackey. He awkwardly reached out and patted PC Principal on the shoulder. “Mmkay, uh. There there.”

PC Principal sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Like… I understand leaving to pursue other opportunities, and what kind of person would I be if I tried and held a woman back from her career? But I never met anyone like her before. I never met someone who can keep up with me, and who is as intelligent and beautiful as her.” He turned to face Mr. Mackey, his face fallen in a frown, and eyes red. “What do I do, man?”

The crowd on the screen cheered. Mr. Mackey sipped his beer and exhaled a sigh through his not to let his coworker catch on that he wanted to leave work at work, and not listen to anyone’s problems right now. “Well, there are times when you have to surround yourself with good people without the expectation of romance, mmkay. Like right now.” He gestured toward the television.  “We’re watching the game, mmkay, try and have a little fun, just, mmkay, for the weekend. Mmkay? What is it the kids say? Bros before hoes?”

PC Principal’s hands shook a little bit, and he gritted his teeth, before taking a deep breath. “I’m gonna let that one slide. I don’t have the energy right now, but, dude. You should know not to say shit like that, okay?” PC Principal straightened up in his barstool, and motioned for Skeeter to bring them a couple more beers. “Let’s watch the game, brah. Bros, and other friends of any gender, before romantic interests.”

“Bros before, mmkay, uh... not bros?”

“Yeah, dude. Bros before not bros.” They clinked their beer bottles together.


	5. it's a real shame nobody asked for your opinion (stanrietta)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> xigbarf asked:  
> 93, some pairing featuring a goth because their brand of sass is all I can think of when I see that prompt
> 
> 93\. ‘it’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion,’ featuring Stan/Henrietta (a v.v. underrated ship imho)

“It’s a real shame nobody asked for your opinion,” Henrietta drawled while she sucked her pinky into her mouth, a trick she learned on YouTube to keep lipstick off of her teeth, “I like this lipstick. You  _ know  _ I’m not some Barbie doll conformist sorority bitch who is gonna wear bubblegum pink gloss on her lips like whoever the fuck else you dated.” She enunciated ‘gloss’ as if it were a dirty word, and rose from her vanity to her closet, slipping a black brocade jacket with a fluffy purple-and-black fur collar over her dress before scrutinizing herself in her full-length mirror. 

Stan was perched on her bed, feeling sort of awkward - while she said it was okay that he was in her room as she got ready, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were intruding upon a private ritual of sorts. He knitted his brow. “I’m just saying, Henrietta, it’s really dark and it might not be appropriate for dinner with my parents?” He knew it was a futile effort, trying to get his girlfriend to dress down. Even though he thought the way she chose to express herself through fashion, the way she - even after the rest of her gang had either turned normal or, god forbid,  _ hipster _ \- embraced her chosen subculture as if it were an intrinsic part of her personality, was beautiful, and mysterious, and more than a little sexy, he knew that he might catch flack from his family. Or, worse - his weirdo dad might get a little  _ too _ interested in Henrietta’s goth style. He shuddered at the thought of his father traipsing around town in a top hat with a raven on his shoulder or some equally inane weirdness. “Yeah… I just think my dad-”

_ “Your _ dad?” She glared at Stan. “The same guy who’s drummed up all fucking kinds of trouble in this shithole town?” She rolled her eyes, and lit a cigarette. “Like… the same guy who is  _ Lorde, _ who is totally appropriating goth culture and bringing it to all those conformist teenage girls?”

He pinched his nose. “Awh, man… don’t talk about the Lorde thing. He’s so embarrassing.”

“Then why are you embarrassed by me?” She exhaled a curl of blue-grey smoke, her eyes sharp and shining with something that could have been hurt.

“I’m not,” Stan replied, “Why would I be with you if I was embarrassed? I like your lipstick,” he said with a half-smile.

She scoffed. “Yeah, whatever.” The corner of her mouth twitched into a near-smile. “You’re pretty cute for a dumb  jock. Let’s go handle your fucking weird family.”


	6. you're so cute when you pout like that (candy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 97 with Wendy and Cartman please
> 
>  
> 
> oh shit a secret low-key hateship of mine. shhhhhhhh.  
> 97: you’re so cute when you pout like that.

“You’re so cute when you pout like that, Wendy,” said Cartman, voice muffled through his mouth full of chips and salsa.

Wendy lifted her head from her workbook, jerky and quick, and made a point to shoot the most intense glare she could muster across the table. “I’m not pouting, fatass. I’m just trying to figure out this study guide and you, being my _lab partner_ , should be helping but you’re just sitting there stuffing your fucking face.”

Cartman laughed. “Whatever. You’re cuuuute,” he repeated. Some salsa dripped off the end of a chip, onto Cartman’s shirt, which he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m already done with mine… cutie.”

“How’s this, you call me cute again and I punch you square in the face.” Wendy adjusted her posture, sitting as upright as she possibly could in the hard-backed chair in Cartman’s kitchen. “Okay, so on the test they’re going to want us to identify all of the bones in the-”

“I got a bone you could identify.”

Wendy flushed red, and gripped her pencil almost hard enough for it to break. “Eric, I swear to god, I kicked your ass before and I can do it again.”

“Weee-elll, Ms. Testaburger, I seem to remember that we worked on a project together, mmm, around that same time back then, and you couldn’t keep your hands off of my sexy bod.” Crumbs of tortilla chip stuck to the salsa stain on his t-shirt.

“You do NOT have a sexy bod,” she snapped. Her face burned with how hard she was blushing. “You have the opposite of a sexy bod, you have-”

Cartman raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. “Chips?” he asked, pushing the bowl of salsa closer to Wendy. “I can heat up some queso too if you want some.”

She smiled, despite herself. “Consider me shocked that you would share food with anyone,” she drawled, and nibbled on a tortilla chip. “Can I see what you have so far?” They scooted their chairs closer, to one side of the table, and she bristled, then relaxed when his elbow prodded her in the side. His study guide was good, really good - for a second she suspected cheating, but she saw him write it, and knew it was his. She hated it, hated thinking that Cartman was smart in any way, hated knowing for a fact that he could keep up with her intellectually. Even if he was a racist, offensive piece of shit, he was smart, with nice eyes and - she choked on her tortilla chip. _Eric Cartman does NOT have nice eyes,_ she thought, _Eric Cartman is not smart, Eric Cartman is not CUTE and Eric Cartman is certainly not playing footsie with me under the table and I’m totally not okay with that and... oh god damn it._

“Whatcha doing when we’re done?” he asked. His foot nudged her shin, and while she made no move to deepen the touch, she also didn’t pull away.

“Going home,” she answered, as abruptly as she could.

“You sure?”

She exhaled, and poked his foot with her toe.  “Let’s just finish our homework, Eric.”

**Author's Note:**

> @super-craig-is-gay dot tumblr dot com


End file.
